To err is human
by silenus
Summary: Ron's finding it hard to let go. (HP/DM, RW/HG).


Title: To err is human.  
Author: silenus (silenusnz@hotmail.com)   
Rating: PG-13 (because I'm trying to progress)   
Pairing: RW/HG, HP/DM – yip it's slash people. Leave if you must.   
Disclaimer: characters belong to JK Rowling. I'm just borrowing them for a tic.   
Note: short little fic about death and coping. No, really. Could be considered sad if you're an overly emotional person like I am. Apologies in advance.

It was sixty years to the day. Not much had changed since then really. Sure his joints ached frequently, more often during the winter months. His eyesight had never been the same since about ten years ago, and much to his chagrin he often found himself wearing that horrid red shirt simply because he couldn't tell one shirt from the other. Still, she had loved that shirt. He often forgets where he placed things, or that he was meant to meet someone. Not that he was visited very often these days anyway. But still. 

He remembers certain things. What he'd eaten for breakfast. The headline of the Daily Prophet, "Tea Party at Gringotts? New history revealed concerning the 1497 Treaty". Well, it had been a slow week news wise. And smells. His mothers perfume. Hermione's cooking. Well, burning really. She never had learnt to make anything other than toast, but she certainly did try. She never was one to admit defeat. 

Ron had always wanted a large house with several fireplaces where he could hang numerous socks for his family during Christmas, just like they used to do when he was a child. He still did it every Christmas, just because he wanted, no needed, that feeling of family during the holidays. He reached out and ran his fingers tentatively down the first sock that hung from the mantle above the fireplace. Hermione's. She'd made it during their first Christmas together. Molly had helped, of course, but Hermione had wanted to do it properly without magic. He'd shared a few laughs with Harry over Hermione's effort. Her 'sock' had ended up looking more like an oversized tea cosy, but no-one had the nerve to tell Hermione. She had been so proud. Harry's was next. It was still a bit frayed around the edges and had more patches than any of the other socks. Ron was surprised it had lasted this long, after all it was only a large Muggle sock - but Harry would never part with, and Ron felt compelled to do the same. His sock was placed next to, or rather on top of, another sock. Malfoy's sock. As if even their clothing couldn't bear to be apart from each other.

Oh, he could say the name without bitterness now. It had taken awhile though, even after he'd gone as Ron had felt justified in keeping the hate alive; it just seemed more natural that way. Now he didn't see the point.

Malfoy's sock was red and gold, a gift from Harry on their second anniversary. He'd even embroided a large golden lion on the front which would occasionally rise up on its hind legs and roar. Well it used to. It sleeps a lot now. Ron remembered Malfoy's face on receiving that particular gift and laughed quietly to himself. It had taken quite a lot of coaxing from Harry to calm him down. Honestly, Malfoy could be so dramatic. It was just a sock. Though it had surprised him when it made its reappearance the following Christmas, and then several Christmases after that. Malfoy would whine loudly about Gryffindor's and several other unmentionable things before going to sit down in front of the fire. Harry would shake his head and laugh at which point Malfoy would pout, Harry would apologise, and all would be forgiven until next Christmas.

Next to Malfoy's' was Ron's own bright red sock embroided with a large R courtesy of his mother. He idly fingered the embossing. He'd been angry at Hermione over something, though looking back he couldn't remember what, and decided he'd put his sock as far away from hers as possible thank-you very much – even if it meant being near Malfoy's. And the pattern just stuck. Hermione, Harry, Malfoy and Ron. And it had been like that for over sixty years.

But he didn't mind. It kept him sane. 

He turned his head slightly and reached for nearest photograph that lined the mantle shelf. The photograph had aged with time but Ron was loath to do anything to stop the process. It had been taken shortly before The Incident at Harry's birthday during which Hermione had made them all wear brightly coloured paper hats attached to their heads with some sort of twine. Or was it elastic? It didn't matter, but Ron remembered kicking up a fuss as he'd been given the yellow hat to wear, and who wants to wear yellow? Harry had gotten an emerald green one (_"Well, really Ron. It's his birthday, why should he wear the yellow?"_), Malfoy was given a silver one _("Ron, for the last time it's the perfect complement to Harry's hat, and you know how Malfoy gets if things aren't coordinated")_. Hermione had given herself a brown one, which in Ron's opinion hadn't been the best choice _("I look like **what **Ronald Weasley?")_. But they'd made up by the time Harry got to cut the cake and witness Hagrid blowing his nose into a small blanket and generally sobbing while being consoled by a drunk Sirius. Don't suppose it was any wonder that after twelve years in Azkaban he couldn't hold his liquor.

Ron was just finishing off his third piece of cake with Hermione resting her head in his lap, when Harry and Malfoy joined them on the sofa. They were holding hands and Harry looked happy. Incredibly happy. But then Ron had given him an improved broom servicing kit, so he really couldn't blame him, and then _flash!_ Preserved for posterity by Colin Creevy. He looked at the photograph in his hands, though he didn't need to. The photograph was ingrained in his mind. Given a pencil and some paper, he probably could have drawn the image blindfolded. Hermione lying across his lap, smiling beneficently up at him while he tried (unsuccessfully) to wipe the cream off his mouth, and Harry and Malfoy who sat gazing into each other's eyes. In fact, Ron didn't think they'd taken their eyes off each other for the last sixty years.

But being in love is like that. 

He gently removed the photo from it's frame, as if by separating it from the glass he could get closer to it – closer to how it was back then. Sometimes he imagines he hears her voice, but he doesn't mind. At least he still has that. He reads her books sometimes, even "Hogwarts: A History". He'd had to read it several times because his eyesight was unaccountably blurry and he couldn't seem to focus on the words. He looked down at the photo and was surprised to see it was wet, it wasn't until he touched his cheeks that he'd realised he'd been crying. 

He put the photo back in the frame. 

He checked his watch. It was almost time, Ginny would be here soon. She never stayed, just took Ron where he needed to go and waited until he returned. He suspected that maybe she wanted to go with him, but she respected his need to be alone. And after all, it was almost tradition now. He grabbed his glasses and decided he'd wait out on the front steps for her. It was cold, but that didn't really matter to him now. Not much did these days. 

What may have been an hour, or a few minutes later, Ginny pulled up in a blue car, a Buick I think she called it. Ginny had married a muggle, David, or maybe Daniel, and she'd developed a taste for classic cars. Ron didn't really care as he didn't travel much, and stopped travelling completely when his eyesight deteriorated. She didn't say anything, which Ron was grateful for, just helped him stand and held the door open for him when he got in the car. He supposed that must have taken some effort, after all, Ginny was only a few years younger than himself. But she was the type who aged gracefully, while Ron, well Ron just aged. 

It had begun snowing a few days earlier and the countryside was blanketed in white. Ron preferred it that way. Everything melded into one, and he could recognise nothing in the bleakness. Ginny had looked over at him, and was now gently squeezing his hand. Ron was grateful for the gesture though he'd never say so. Ginny just smiled. 

They arrived shortly after that. 

It was with shaky hands he opened the door and bared himself to the snow. It wasn't too heavy, just a slight drizzle. Malfoy would have said it added to the drama. Hermione and Harry would have said it was romantic. Hmmph, romantic. Hermione had once said Romeo and Juliet was romantic, and it had been one of the first books he read since The Incident. Ron wondered how a smart witch like Hermione had gotten it so wrong. It wasn't romantic at all, it was tragic. 

It was a long walk to the top of the hill, and the walk got longer every year. There was a gentle buzzing in his ear that got steadily louder the closer he got. It was similar to a myriad of voices in his head. That suddenly stopped. No sound. Ron supposed the absence of sound made it seem that much more absolute. That much more real. Because even after sixty years he hadn't wanted it to be real. 

He dropped to his knees and felt the reverberation throughout his whole body. He realised he was crying again, but then maybe he hadn't stopped. He reached out and touched the stone, shocked once again by how cold it seemed. He always thought it should be warm, like they were. How can you take something so warm, so full of life, and leave in its place something so cold. So finite. 

They had been buried together. He thought that's how they would have wanted it. Funny how everyone had accepted that. That the very same people who had been so disapproving of their relationship in the first place, should so readily agree. But perhaps they just finally saw what Harry and Malfoy had seen all along, and what Ron had eventually come to accept, if not understand. That they were two pieces of the same puzzle. They were, quite simply, made for each other. 

Ron hoped to God that there really was an afterlife. Because, if nothing else, those two deserved it. To be with each other. For eternity. 

He reached over and felt Hermione's gravestone. Her parents hadn't minded her being buried up here with Harry and Malfoy. After all, they were like her surrogate family for so long. They all were. Ron knew her parents used to come up here a lot before they passed away but not too often, and Ron was glad. Hermione wouldn't have liked them dwelling on the past. He ran his fingers over the grooves of her name, though he didn't need to. He knew every groove, every facet on that stone. 

He used to talk to them, and bring flowers. But he doesn't do that anymore. Now he just sits and waits. He leaves after a few hours, never looking back. Because he doesn't have to. It's engraved in his mind. He sits there now and prays, prays that this time will be his last, and that after sixty years he can finally go home. To Hermione. To Harry and Malfoy. 

Sixty years is a long time to be alone.

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A/N 'The Incident' can be anything you like. Go on, get creative. Hmm, Ron's not exactly one for moving on is he? 


End file.
